


Ill Met by Floodlight

by JoansGlove



Series: Within These Walls [5]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: As Vera soon realises, this is no midsummer night's dream





	Ill Met by Floodlight

**Author's Note:**

> I conceived of this story when I thought that we'd never see Joan again

A woman nearly died last night; that she didn’t is slim consolation considering she’ll never walk again. Rubbing her eyes tiredly, Vera hits send and switches off the monitor. The brutality in this place is like a disease and it distresses her that all she ever seems to be doing is applying sticking plasters instead of being allowed to dispense the cure.

It’s been a long day and an even longer evening. Fruitless hours of interviewing the staff and women alike over Cherry Li’s senseless attack have left her with a vicious tension headache that’s threatening to destroy the last vestiges of her concentration. Defying even the strongest painkillers, it sits behind her eyes like a ball of knives, extending its reach every now and then to slip a silent blade into the base of her skull; and she needs to get out of this office, needs to get some air.

There’s no one about as she makes her way to the lift, and she hesitates, finger hovering over the call buttons as first she looks up, and then down, and considers her options. She’d prefer the roof - the sense of wide open space up there usually calms her - but she can’t be doing with the hassle of dealing with whichever officer she knows she’ll find sneaking a crafty smoke so the yard it will have to be, and she jabs at the down arrow and descends to the silent hub, hurrying through H-Block with the rapid sound of her heels fading in her wake.

The clear, crisp night carries a tang that heralds the turn of the season and, closing her eyes she takes a deep, revitalising breath and steps into it as she allows herself a moment just to enjoy the chilly scent. As she turns to face the dusty grass and worn concrete it’s as if the ground has given way, and she almost staggers as her mind goes into a sudden and heart-stopping, stomach-churning freefall. Her gasp plumes whitely in the cold air.

There, beneath the basketball hoop that had served as her gallows, stands the tall, darkly uniformed figure of Ferguson.

Dull orange light glances off her sleek bun as she stares pensively up at the net. She looks so solid, so real; and Vera sags as every muscle in her small body slackens and she breaks into a slick, icy sweat. Nausea beats in her throat making it hard to breathe. She must be more stressed than she thought if she’s hallucinating Ferguson! Despite her fear of things under her bed, she’s never really believed in ghosts – she’s certainly never sensed anything herself – but there’s always been a tiny part of her that’d wondered _‘what if?’_ What if some people really _could_ see them like they claimed…? Long, pale fingers twitch at the curve of the spectre’s hip and the dark head tilts sideways as if listening, and Vera holds her breath, sure that it can hear her heart as it beats savagely in her chest.

And then Ferguson turns and Vera's hand flies to her mouth, stifling the moan of fear as Joan stares at her with those bottomless black eyes of hers. She can almost hear Ferguson’s mental tutting and she feels the familiar burning flush of failure creep from beneath her collar as Joan slowly shakes her head in exaggerated disappointment and graces her with a pitying smirk.

Guilt and hopelessness grip Vera in their fist. She’s told herself that she was duped by Ferguson so many times that she’s almost come to believe it, but in her heart she knows that she was only too willing to let Joan sweep her along on a tide of petty power and insidious indoctrination; it was seductive and exciting and she wilfully ignored the danger signals until she finally came up against a lie that she couldn’t swallow – and for that she feels an intense remorse and, inextricably linked to that, a sense of responsibility for all the women (and men) that Joan damaged during her reign as Officer, Governor and, later Top Dog.

She should have let Joan die that day. If she’d just stood back and let the women claim justice (and watched Channing take the fall) then her life would be so much easier now. Instead, she’s trapped in this fucking cat’s cradle of blackmail and lies, and it feels as if she’ll never be free again.

With some effort, she wills herself to calm down. Blinking hard, she applies damp palms to her temples and smooths the errant, wispy curls from her forehead before giving herself a mental slap. The yard’s empty she tells herself – no ghost, no vision – and she opens her eyes to prove it. She finds herself pinned by Ferguson's black hole stare and dull dread grips her vitals. “You're not real,” she whispers hoarsely to the apparition. Ferguson's raised eyebrow demands, ‘Is that so?’

“I know you're not,” she says finding her voice. “You're dead! I saw you!” She’ll never forget that night, never forget the horrible sense of relief she’d felt at the sight of Joan's corpse. Shadows crawl at her feet as, swaggering slowly towards Vera, Ferguson raises her hands to shoulder level and turns her head to gaze at each in turn before she halts and pointedly inspects the rest of herself. When she finally deigns to look at Vera again it’s with derision, the twitch of her lips asking, ‘Are you sure?’

Vera feels her hackles rise at Ferguson’s arrogance and the feeling of dread is replaced by something reassuringly familiar. Anger. It clambers hotly up the coat-tails of her tiredness and beats the incomprehensible into submission. “You’re dead,” she states harshly. “So, you can’t be here.” Vera crosses her arms as Ferguson responds with a slow, hard appraisal of her body. “Why are you here?” she demands. “Shouldn’t you be with Jianna, Joan? Or doesn’t she want you?” She eyes Joan venomously. “Or don’t they let _monsters_ in where she went?” Joan's expression hardens and Vera's lips curl in a thin smile – gotcha, she thinks. Her smugness fades as Ferguson's pale features flow into a malevolent grin and she taps the crown on her left shoulder; and Vera's skin crawls as she feels a corresponding pressure on her own badge. She has to dig deep to find the courage to scoff at the disturbing parlour trick but she manages it. Drawing herself up to her full height, she raises her chin defiantly and matches Joan's stare, “I don’t think so, Joan,” she replies scornfully. “You lost, remember? I run this prison now.”

Joan regards her with haughty contempt but Vera’s damned if her own hallucination is going to get the better of her and she stares back harder, refusing to let this, this _thing_ intimidate her. And then, insolently, Joan blows her a kiss and begins to whistle a familiar tune. Vera has no way of knowing that in her own twisted way, Joan had seen aspects of her own life in Offenbach’s operatic story of manipulation and lost love, or that she’d associated this particular piece (the Barcarolle) with their own duplicitous relationship, or that in Joan's eyes she’d stolen more than just her reflection; she only knows that it was playing when she’d told her that she’d reported her for serious misconduct. The night Joan burned down the prison.

Real or not, Vera’s had more than enough of Joan's infuriating superiority. Feigning boredom, she taps her foot as she waits for Joan to tire of taunting her but the whistling only gets louder, more piercing. It's vibrating behind her teeth, burrowing painfully up behind her eyes, and she bows her neck, blinking rapidly as her forgotten headache flares like a hand grenade in her skull. Groggily, she seeks the sanctuary of the porch but the barred gate has swung shut. And, as she discovers, it’s also locked; not very original, she thinks acidly and reaches for her master key. Someone is hammering a saw blade straight though her brain and she grips the painted brick to steady herself as she sways under the dual assault and, with more luck than judgement, she manages to scrape the key across the lock plate and into the keyhole.

It turns easily and she finds the smooth resistance of the lock a reassuringly familiar sensation after the events of the last five minutes, but then it keeps on turning, spinning futilely round and round, and a sick flush of panic burns her from the inside out as Joan's whistling rises to a painful pitch. It’s like she’s in one of her nightmares, she has the same feeling of inertia - as if she were trying to run through chest-deep water. Her pale face creases in pain and she shoots Joan a desperate look as she wills this torment to be over. She blanches further as Joan saunters coolly towards her. She can smell Joan's spoiled perfume as she draws ever closer – as rank and noisome as its wearer – and blind fear begins to set in; bile rising in her throat as her mind starts spewing fearful visions of punishment and mutilation.

Finally, miraculously, the tumblers catch and tears of relief prick behind her lids as Vera wrenches the gate open, ankle turning as she tumbles inside, slamming it shut and ramming the key home with numb fingers. Her mind is a whirl of blankness as she stumbles backwards, and she hits the wall, cringing as the apparition halts at the entrance and floats its dangerous gaze over her. The whistling is excruciating now and it takes her a second or two to realise that it’s no longer coming from Joan. And even though she’s holding her breath she can smell sour, dry earth beneath the rancid musk of Ferguson’s perfume as she graces her with another pitying smile and passes through the locked grille.

Vera’s brain can’t process what she’s seeing and she stares slack jawed at the monster standing beneath the overhead light. Shadow drips from the perfect arch of her eyebrows, it lurks in the creases of her mouth and stains the pale skin beneath the jut of her jaw; as if she absorbs light and exudes dark, thinks Vera randomly as she feels the wall bite into her back and Joan moves closer. And, as she stares up into the intaglio of Ferguson's mocking face, she tenses, waiting for Ferguson to make her move; but it doesn’t come. Instead, Vera sees a strange curiosity enter Joan's eyes, and watches nervously as she inclines her head thoughtfully and her gaze licks its way down Vera's narrow body and back up again, finishing its journey with a calculating squint before Joan turns and strides into the prison’s interior without a backwards glance.

The pain in her cheek is sharp and hot, and Vera slaps herself again, drawing herself tenuously back to the moment. That wasn’t Joan out there in the yard, she scolds herself weakly, that wasn’t Joan disappearing into H-Block; she’s been having some kind of waking dream, some kind of sleepwalking episode because of the stress. It’s never happened before though, so why now? _That’s because you’ve never been an accessory to murder before_ reasons the rational part her overtaxed brain but it’s shouted down by bit that’s freaking out._ She’s not an hallucination – she’s a fucking ghost!_

She can’t think about it, it’s just too much to cope with… her head pounds fit to split and Vera swallows thickly, pushing down the beat of nausea in her throat as her vision starts to narrow. At least the whistling has stopped, she thinks faintly as the world tips sideways and she slides down the wall.

The squawk of her radio makes Vera jump – a call for assistance in C-Block – and her first hope is that it won’t result in another report to the board. And then the events of the yard come rushing back and a mewl of horror crawls from her throat as she remembers Joan. She must have been dreaming; yet she finds no explanation for why she’s fallen asleep here. Jesus, she needs to get this day over and done with… Gingerly, Vera pushes herself to her feet and winces softly as her ankle complains, and as she wonders what she could have done to make it so sore it occurs to her that her headache has completely vanished.

Music stretches out to greet her as she approaches the habitats.

_Schöne Nacht, du Liebesnacht_

_O stille das Verlangen,_

_Süßer als der Tag_

_Uns Lacht die Schöne Liebesnacht._

The beautiful words slide through the bars and wreathe around her as she limps past H5, and she suppresses a shudder. One of the women must have left a radio on, she thinks. Not uncommon, but the tune can’t be more unsettling.

The music fades then swells again as she approaches H4 and she glances into the lounge with a frown. It too, is empty.

_… Fern von dieses Ortes Pracht_

_Entflieht die Zeit mit Macht._

The whole corridor is filled with the haunting melody. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and make her shiver, where the fuck is it coming from? Why hasn’t it disturbed any of the women? Vera hurries on with gritted teeth, heart racing as she hastens out of the shadows and towards the safety of her office. 

_Zephire Lind und Sacht,_

_Die uns Kosend umfangen_

_Zephire haben sacht…_

The song soars, pushing her along past H2 and H1. She tries to shake off the not so subtle grip of claustrophobia and quickens her pace further until her last few uneven steps are almost a jog but, as she slips through the gate and crosses the hub, she can still hear it. It can’t be coming from the PA can it? This has to be another dream or else she really _is_ hallucinating, and fresh panic starts to set in, making her giddy and skittish. The call button clicks softly as she leans all of her weight on it, praying that the lift isn’t on another floor, and blessed relief washes over her as the steel box opens and she steps quickly inside.

_Schöne Nacht du Liebes Nacht_

_O stille das Verlangen…_

But this relative safety doesn’t quell the thready feeling of tightness in her chest, and Vera eyes the landing warily. She’d done the right thing in reporting Ferguson. It wasn’t her fault what happened afterwards – no matter what anyone said – and she most certainly wasn’t responsible for her death! She jabs again at the button for the upper level.

_…Ach! Stille das Verlangen Liebes Nacht_

_O Liebes nac…_

The doors slide shut and with a whoosh, Vera releases her held breath. The sudden silence is eerie, the absence of sound heavy in her ears, and she leans heavily against the cold metal panels as the lift whirrs into action. Why tonight? She asks herself again. Why not other nights too? What’s different now? Her fear feeds a jangling knot of frustration – frustration at her own fucked-upness. What broken bit of herself is conjuring Ferguson? And not just conjuring her, but making her behave like a bitch towards her too? Will she ever be free of the malevolent sow?

She needs a break. Get away to somewhere sunny maybe, somewhere normal – so she can remember what being normal feels like…

Miles is waiting for her outside her office and Vera sighs wearily. Straightening her shoulders, she takes a deep breath and blows out her cheeks in preparation for what’s to come. Judging by the way the way Miles avoids her eyes Vera knows this isn’t going to bode well. “What is it Linda?” she asks tightly.

“I er…

“Oh, come on. I haven’t got all night!” she snaps irritably.

“We’ve had to move Harrison to the Psych Ward.”

“So?”

“She er…” Linda swallows nervously and grimaces as Vera raises her eyebrows expectantly. “She says that she saw _Governor_ Ferguson in her room. Reckons that Ferguson spoke to her. She refuses to stay in C-Block.”

“You put her in Psych for having a bad dream?” she asks incredulously. Fuck, if that’s all it took then she’d have been sectioned long ago!

“She’s adamant, Guv’na. Swears The Freak was sitting at the foot of her bed.”

Vera curses under her breath. She smooths her hair from her forehead and asks, “Was she high?”

“Didn’t seem to be.”

“Anyone else see Ferguson?” Linda’s obviously confused by this and her eyes narrow as she looks at Vera questioningly. “What I mean is, was it someone playing a practical joke?”

“Don’t think so, Guv’na. Reckon she’s done one too many séances myself.” Now it’s Vera's turn to look confused. “Reckons herself to be the next Mitchell Coombes,” she explains.

That’s all she fucking needs – wild stories of Ferguson's ghost flying around the prison! “Mm, well,” she huffs. “Considering that as far as anyone knows, Ferguson is still alive, I doubt that very much; but we might as well go and see what she has to say for herself.”

“Not tonight, Guv’na, she’s been sedated. You won’t get anything out of her until the morning.”

“Alright,” she concedes, secretly glad of the news. “But I want an update on my desk first thing tomorrow and I want to see the Psychologist before she’s released back into General.” Linda nods and takes her leave and Vera leans wearily against her secretary’s desk.

Back in her office, safely tucked behind her desk, Vera’s hot head weighs heavy in her hand as she tries not to connect this suspect sighting with what did or didn’t happen out in the yard. She’s read about mass hallucinations and the phenomenon of shared dreams but they only occur under very specific conditions, and she doubts that there’s anything in this hole that even comes close to meeting them. No, they probably just showed Ferguson's picture on the news again and it’s stirred up everyone’s bad feeling.

She’s already moving up the ranks of prison mythology – a fallen (and very bent) screw risen to Top Dog, a soulless killer, torturer and psychopath, a woman who wasn’t above doing her own (really) dirty work; and now, an apparently successful fugitive. And although she’s gone, the thought of her still unsettles the women so no wonder some of them will have bad dreams – god knows _she_ does!

But she finds that she can’t separate the two incidents. They’re just too coincidental, and she’s learned by now that your first instinct, your first answer to a problem is usually the right one. So then, if they _are_ linked as she suspects, what does it mean? She feels ludicrous even considering the possibility of a ghost but she knows that the question needs to be answered before everyone starts claiming to have seen Ferguson's shade – or worse, they blame a maiming or a murder on her... There’s nothing else she can do about it tonight though and she listlessly turns her attention back to the pile of work that just never seems to shrink.

Try as she might, she can’t make herself read this report on the new recidivism project. She’s started in on the executive summary three times now but the pull of the macabre keeps raising her eyes to the office door as her thoughts slide into a darker arena. The urge to see for herself where Ferguson allegedly materialised is curiously strong and, against her better judgement, she can feel her resolve wavering.

There’s no music to accompany her this time, just the hollow ring of her heels and the whick-whick sound of her jacket as she swings her arms in time to her march. But whatever self-composure she’s recovered wanes as she lets herself into Harrison’s unit and nudges the cell door open with a cautious toe.

She finds nothing but a neat room with a disordered bed. She sniffs as she scans Harrison’s corkboard, rolling her eyes with a mixture of pity and scorn at the ripped-out pictures of crystals, Tarot cards and a Ouija board; and then her nose wrinkles in distaste and she freezes, eyes wide, not daring to take another breath because she knows that when she does, she’ll smell nothing but Joan's spoiled perfume and grave dirt. She was here. Just like she was out there in the yard.

Vera’s heart stops as the heavy door closes of its own volition and from behind her the low, rich voice she knows and hates so well purrs, “Hullo, Vera.”


End file.
